The feather, a symbol of impossible achievement only moments before, now executed a slow, graceful pirouette high above the mahogany desk. It seemed to hang suspended by an invisible thread woven from pure will and Latin syllables, silently congratulating Harry on his spectacular, successful transgression of Muggle physics.
A wide, genuine grin split Harry's face. He had done it.
"Excellent, Harry! Now, keep the spell active and try to feel the mechanics," Sebastian commanded, his voice filled with an approving authority. "Concentrate. Can you feel that inexplicable, subtle flow—that current of energy moving from your core, down your arm, and into the wood of your wand?"
Harry immediately redirected his intense focus from the floating feather to his own limb. He closed his eyes, concentrating deeply. Yes. There was a faint, internal hum, a gentle warmth that started deep in his chest and diffused outward, a sensation entirely foreign yet perfectly natural.
"And now, open your eyes. Observe the feather. Do you perceive the invisible connection binding your wand tip and the feather? That silent, energetic tether?"
Harry opened his eyes, now seeing the space between his wand and the object of his command not as empty air, but as a shimmering, non-physical line of force. It was the essence of magic itself—a raw, undeniable truth that settled deep within him. He slowly rotated his wrist, and the feather responded in perfect, synchronous motion, twisting and turning like a trained dancer responding to an unheard melody.
This was more thrilling than the thought of any theme park. This was power.
Harry nodded vehemently, his eyes alight with a ferocious hunger. "I can feel it, Professor Swann! It's like a muscle! I want to learn more! I want to learn the powerful spells immediately!" He was instantly filled with a fierce, reckless ambition, eager to dominate the battlefield he knew awaited him.
Sebastian's smile softened into something more complex, carrying a note of paternal disappointment that instantly poured cold water over Harry's raging excitement.
"Hold on, young warrior," Sebastian said, shaking his head. "We must introduce a necessary evil: limits. Many of the truly powerful, transformative spells—the ones that stop Dark Wizards in their tracks—rely on a depth of magical power you simply do not possess yet. Your core, while unusually potent for your age, is still a fragile, narrow channel."
"Even if you master the Incantation and the Gesture flawlessly, the required output will simply fizzle out, or worse, cause a disastrous backlash," Sebastian explained, his voice low and firm. "Patience. We will focus on spells that require intense Intent and Precision, rather than sheer Force. I will teach you a series of minor Jinxes and Hexes. With your nascent power, you can deploy them effectively."
He gave Harry a challenging look. "Now, internalize that feeling of magical flow. Remember it. That feeling is the heart of your power. It's time to take this show on the road. Follow me. It's time for the Dueling Arena."
Harry followed Sebastian out to the garden, but instead of the beautiful rose bushes he had admired yesterday, Sebastian led him to a clearing—a long, flat stretch of ground neatly bounded by low, polished stones. Harry realized this was the feature he had mentally cataloged as a "Muggle tennis court without a net."
At the far end, Sebastian conjured an object: a life-sized, articulated wooden figure, its surface gleaming with arcane runes. This was no common scarecrow; it was an Alchemy Golem, designed to absorb the kinetic and magical impact of low-level spells.
"This is our target practice," Sebastian announced. "The spell we just used, the Levitation Charm, is a Binding Charm—it creates a sustained, invisible link between the caster and the target. The minor curses we will learn are different: they are Projectile Spells."
"Projectile spells—the Jinxes and Hexes—have no connection to your wand the moment they leave the tip. Once fired, they are an independent bolt of energy, like an arrow or, more crudely, a stone thrown from your hand. Once thrown, you can no longer guide or control it."
Sebastian demonstrated. With a swift, unhesitating movement, he cast a simple, stunningly fast jinx. A thin, scarlet beam of light shot across the arena and struck the Alchemy Golem right in the chest, causing the wooden figure to jerk violently backward and emit a low, electronic whine.
"Accuracy is paramount, Harry," Sebastian emphasized, turning back to the boy. "Does that sound familiar? It should. It is the tactical imperative of Muggle soldiers when they practice marksmanship."
Harry's eyes lit up. "I know! I saw it on the television! Target shooting practice!"
"Exactly. But with a distinction: our spells, unlike bullets, inflict specialized effects on any part of the body—which is why wizards wear robes with deep, flowing sleeves," Sebastian instructed. "Your targets will not be standing still. They will be moving, evading, and firing back. Therefore, the accuracy of your spell, the control of its output, the timing of your attack, and above all, your personal footwork are more important than sheer power."
Harry quickly adapted. The muscle memory from the Levitation Charm translated surprisingly well to the first Minor Curse, the Trip Jinx (Tarantallegra—a movement-disrupting hex). His high concentration and fierce intent, born from the conversation last night, led to rapid success. He hit the stationary target repeatedly, focusing on its joints and balance points. He even managed to maintain solid accuracy when commanded to fire while moving laterally.
Sebastian watched Harry's proficiency with grudging admiration. He is a prodigy of Intent, he thought. The boy understands 'belief' better than any fifth-year I taught.
Then, the approving look vanished, replaced by a predatory, malevolent grin—a look Harry had never seen before. Sebastian took ten long, measured paces backward, stepping behind a rune-etched barrier on his side of the arena.
"Puppets are predictable, Harry. They do not increase situational awareness or teach reflexive evasion." Sebastian's voice echoed across the empty space. "The best way to develop strength is through authentic, high-stress combat simulation."
Sebastian raised his wand.
"Come. Attack me with everything you have. Let's assess your true progress!"
Harry froze, his blood instantly turning to ice. His feet felt like lead weights had been bolted to his ankles.
No. Nonono. His internal monologue was a cascade of pure, tactical panic. I'm a Level 1 Alternate Character! I haven't even finished the Tutorial Cave! You don't pit a Level 1 Squire against a Final Boss! This violates every known gaming trope!
He swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. He couldn't retreat. Not now. Not after telling Sebastian he would do anything to avenge his parents. Retreat was not an option for the Boy-Who-Lived, even if his opponent was merely his temporary guardian.
Courage, Harry. We dare to curse the powerful!
He gritted his teeth, raised his holly wand, and pointed it at the master wizard who was, at that moment, still grinning smugly.
Focus on the eyes. Disrupt the focus. Go for the face!
Harry lunged forward slightly, shouting the incantation for the Teeth-Enlargement Jinx (Densaugeo), a nasty hex he'd only practiced once.
"DENS-—!"
Sebastian barely moved. He didn't even raise his own wand. He simply took a single, fluid sidestep to the left. The jet of sickly yellow light, fired with all of Harry's ferocious, desperate intent, sizzled harmlessly past Sebastian's ear.
"Utterly ineffective, Harry," Sebastian's voice cut through the air, dismissive yet instructive. "A fantastic burst of intent, but far too telegraphed. Your stance gave me a two-second warning. Do not stand still—a static target is an obituary waiting to be written. Move your feet!"
Harry's legs felt like wet noodles, but he forced himself into a weaving pattern, firing the jinx again.
"DENS-AUGEO!"
Sebastian raised his hand lazily. A shimmer of transparent air, like heat rising off asphalt, appeared for a fraction of a second where the jinx was aimed. The yellow light vanished instantly, absorbed by a casual Shield Charm (Protego) executed with the elegant ease of a wave goodbye.
"Excellent attempt! You almost hit the middle of my thigh!" Sebastian cheered mockingly. "But my shield is iron. And now, my turn. Watch your footing, novice!"
Sebastian finally raised his wand, and with a lazy flick, sent a silvery-blue jet of light speeding toward Harry.
"Tarantallegra!" (The uncontrollable dancing hex.)
Harry instinctively dove and rolled, just managing to avoid the worst of the spell, though a residual shimmer caught his ankle. His leg immediately began to tremble uncontrollably, forcing him into a grotesque, involuntary jig that threw his balance completely off.
"You're dancing, Harry! Very good progress! Now, retaliate! Never stop moving!" Sebastian laughed, a genuine, delighted sound that was deeply unsettling. "Your defense is evolving! Now, Densaugeo me again, or I shall be forced to hit you with the Bat-Bogey Hex!"
At 9:00 PM, Harry lay rigid in his bed. He felt like his body was no longer an integrated whole but a collection of throbbing, aching components.
I want to go back to the Dursleys' house, he thought, almost delirious with pain. At least the cupboard was quiet.
His arms, which had spent hours frantically swinging his wand and casting minor, energy-draining spells, were leaden and impossible to lift. His legs, having spent the entire afternoon dodging Sebastian's humiliating hexes (which ranged from uncontrollable giggling jinxes to a spell that temporarily made his nose resemble a soft, purple trumpet), were still trembling slightly. The overall sensation was one of pins and needles, a deep, pervasive tingling and numbness that Sebastian had casually dismissed as the "pleasant residue of magical exhaustion," assuring Harry he would "get used to it."
He wanted to cry, but his body was too weary for tears.
Yet, as the agony subsided and his mind cleared, a slow, deep satisfaction spread through him.
He replayed the afternoon: the initial shock, the fear, the ridiculous dancing and the giant nose… but then, the breakthrough. After the first hour, his desperate need to evade danger had somehow unlocked a hidden, powerful athletic instinct. By the end of the session, he had successfully dodged Sebastian's every attack simply by trusting his gut and his newfound, rapid footwork.
I didn't lose my wand. I dodged the last twelve spells. I was effective.
He closed his eyes and whispered encouragement to the ceiling, his voice trembling only slightly now. "Tomorrow… tomorrow I hit him in the shoulder. Good luck for tomorrow, Harry."
For the next two weeks, Harry's life was an uncompromising, utterly draining cycle of magical martial arts.
The training was relentless: dawn sprints around the massive, magically concealed garden; continuous footwork drills; high-speed duels against the Alchemy Golem programmed with Death Eater combat patterns; and, most terrifyingly, random, unannounced non-verbal hexes from Sebastian during tea or even while reading.
Sebastian insisted this was to develop constant, 360-degree awareness—a prerequisite for survival in the true wizarding war.
Sebastian, however, was as meticulous in his logistical support as he was brutal in his instruction. He was a perfect quartermaster.
He ensured Harry received high-protein, calorie-rich, and delicious meals prepared by Jeff, the house-elf. More crucially, he administered the Energy Supplemental Potions.
These were nothing short of a miracle. When Harry finished a dueling session, utterly spent, muscles screaming, and ready to collapse, Sebastian would present a steaming vial of a rich, shimmering purple or deep blue liquid. Upon draining the bottle, the exhaustion would recede within minutes, replaced by a surge of renewed strength and energy, allowing Harry to push himself further the next day.
Harry was utterly fascinated by the process. He watched Sebastian mix the ingredients, measure the heat, and stir the bubbling contents with the focus he usually reserved for his wand practice. He often asked detailed questions about the ingredients and the chemical (or rather, alchemical) reactions that caused the incredible, restorative effect.
Sebastian watched Harry's fascination with the precision of Potions and immediately began planning.
This boy, the one destined to be a bitter rival of the greatest Potions Master in history, is absolutely captivated by the subject, Sebastian realized, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face.
Severus is currently on holiday, bored out of his mind in his revolting, oil-stained hovel in Cokeworth.
Sebastian made a decisive internal commitment. He needed to ensure Harry's education was complete and that his potion supply remained both high-quality and free.
"That's it," Sebastian muttered, standing up. "Tomorrow, the shopping trip can wait. I'm taking a delightful detour to Spinner's End. Time to deliver a gift."
He chuckled, an evil, anticipatory sound.
Hehehe. Severus, you are welcome. I am bringing you a new project for the summer. You two will get along famously. I just know it.